


Leave Your Heart on the Ice

by minervamoon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, There's A Tag For That
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minervamoon/pseuds/minervamoon
Summary: Funny how life can change your plans.Twenty years ago Anthony Crowley and Aziraphale Eastley were two rising stars in the Figure Skating word. Now Aziraphale is coaching Adam Young for Britain and Crowley finds himself agreeing to coach Warlock Dowling for the U.S.As their skaters confront each other on the ice, these two will confront old emotions, and possibly rekindle a few.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling & Adam Young
Comments: 54
Kudos: 77
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the wonderful [chewb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewb/pseuds/chewb) for graciously agreeing to put up with being my beta for another fic.

**March**

“That’s it! Don’t lock your knees.” 

Anthony J. Crowley watched from the side of the rink as twelve miniature humans tried to stay upright on ice skates. “You there, Unicorn Girl. You have to move your feet.” 

A six-year-old girl with unicorns on her coat tried to do as she was told and promptly landed on her rump. Crowley sighed and easily glided on his skates across the ice, a figure all in black, and around the other children to her. 

“Falling’s all part of the process,” he said as he took her mittened hand and helped her back onto her feet. “You good?” Unicorn Girl nodded. Crowley smiled down at her. “Ok. Let’s try this again.”

“Did you really win medals, Mr. Crowley?” asked the girl, looking up at him with big, brown eyes.

“A couple.”

“And you can do all the fancy spins like on TV?”

“Used to.”

“Didn’t you get dizzy?”

Crowley crouched down to her level and said with a smile, “Lots.” He gently tugged on one of her pigtails, also bedecked with unicorns on the ties. She giggled, mittened hands over her mouth. Crowley checked his watch and called out. “That’s it for today. If you’re using rental skates, do not just leave them lying around. Take them back to the rental window.” 

Standing back up, Crowley held out his hand to Unicorn Girl and helped her to the side where her mother was waiting.

“You’re so good with kids, Mr. Crowley,” beamed the woman. 

“Gay,” said Crowley flatly before skating off to help the stragglers in. There was a chance she might not have been flirting with him, but it had been happening since he'd moved to the U.S. and started this job. Single moms, or married but unhappy. Better to just stop it before it had a chance to start. He just hoped he hadn’t pissed the mom off so much that she didn’t bring her daughter back.

Crowley was expecting to be alone after the parents filed out with their munchkins; to have a little time alone with his thoughts and the ice. But what he saw after they left was a familiar mop of dark hair walking up to the gate to the ice. 

“Hellspawn!” Crowley called out happily, stepping off the ice and accepting the blade guards the young man handed him.

“Still giving us all nicknames?” chuckled the young man.

Crowley laughed and sat down on the nearby bench. “Easier than remembering all your names. Someone actually named their kid Khaleesi[1]

The young man pointed to himself. “Warlock,” he said as if that spoke for itself, which it did. 

Crowley laughed, then asked, “What brings you to your old stomping grounds? Nostalgia?”

Warlock’s smile faded. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. Crowley had a flash of the shy five-year-old he’d met years ago. “Dad wants me to quit.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. “He’s always wanted you to quit, homophobic prick. Go to the press. His approval ratings will tank.”

“Horn ditched me,” said Warlock, now looking at the toes of his sneakers.

“Gabriel Horn is a hack,” said Crowley, immediately rankling at the mention of the name. “You don’t need him.”

“Dad says I do. He told Mom I have to have a coach or I have to quit.”

“He’s a shitty coach; you’re better off without him. And as for your dad, go to the press,” said Crowley again, stressing the words this time.

“That won’t get me a coach before the season starts,” said Warlock. “We can’t find one. I’m not good enough.”

Crowley stood up at that, anger rising to the surface. “Now that’s not true. I’ve seen you skate. You have amazing jumps, endurance for days, and-”

“I need you to be my coach!” Warlock exclaimed in a rush, eyes snapping up and fixing Crowley with a pleading expression.

“What? Me?” asked Crowley, shocked. “But I’ve never coached in a professional capacity.”

“I don’t care. You’re the only person besides Mom that’s ever believed I could do this.”

“Warlock.” Crowley sighed and ran his hand through his hair, knocking the half-ponytail loose. He yanked out the elastic and pulled all of his hair back in it. “I competed before you were born, but I’ve never coached a day in my life. I teach kiddie skating now.”

“I still don’t care. If I can’t find a coach I don’t even get this year. Just be my coach until I can find someone else, just so I don’t have to quit.”

Crowley looked at the nineteen-year-old and saw again the five-year-old boy that had first stepped onto the ice and somehow weaseled his way into Crowley’s heart. Warlock was standing there begging him for his help. “Fine!” he said, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Fine. I’m still all for raking your asshole father across the coals; I’d even bring the rake. But, if you’re sure this is what you want…”

Warlock broke into a wide, thankful smile. “It is. Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t earned it.” Crowley sighed again. “I’m guessing you’re going to be needing private rink time here, right? I’ll talk to Luce, see what kind of deals we’ll have to make to get you the rink time you need.”

“I’m gonna need a lot.”

“Horn gave you shitty programs last year. I watched.” Should’ve broken some of his perfect teeth, was a thought Crowley kept to himself. He shook himself, shoving those memories to the side. “Call your mum; tell her I’m in.”

* * *

“All right. All right. Come in for a break.”

Adam Young gave a sigh of relief and skated over to a man in a thick, cream, cable-knit jumper and khaki slacks who waited with a water bottle in one hand, a cane in the other. 

“You need to work on elongating your spine," said Aziraphale Eastley as Adam neared the gate.

“I know. I know,” panted Adam as he took the offered bottle and plopped onto the bench. Aziraphale leaned heavily on his cane as he came over to join him in a sit. Adam watched him warily, “If it’s bad today-”

“It’s nothing, dear boy. Just a bit damp out,” chuckled the man, smiling even as he rubbed at his knee. “Now, about that lunge-[2]"

“Elongate the spine, no dead fish for hands, and hold for two seconds longer.”

The older man chuckled. “I have been harping on that a bit much, haven’t I? You know I-” He was interrupted by the sound of a quacking duck. “Adam, what have I said about-”

“Not answering!” said Adam, holding both hands up to show that they were empty. Aziraphale took in the boy’s tired and sweaty face. 

“I suppose we can stop for the day,” he conceded, then heaved himself up, leaning on the cane. “But we’ll start all the earlier in the morning,” he added in a stern tone that didn’t reach his summer sky blue eyes. “I’ll be in the break room making cocoa when you’re done.”

He was only a few steps away when Adam called out, “Warlock got a new coach!”

Aziraphale called out a polite, “That’s nice,” over his shoulder. “Who is it?”

“Uh-Anthony Crowley."

Aziraphale froze, hand gripping the head of his cane. His heart began racing, which was a silly thing for it to do, he told himself. It had been twenty years. No reason to have that sort of reaction to a name now, even if it was that name.

“Az? Az?” called Adam, pulling Aziraphale from his thoughts. 

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” asked Aziraphale, looking back over his shoulder.

“I was asking if you’d heard of him? Warlock says he used to skate for Britain, about the same time you did.”

Aziraphale turned to face Adam. “Uh, yes, actually. We trained together. Francis was our coach.” 

Adam’s eyes widened in surprise, then he grinned. “Wait,” he said in a tone Aziraphale recognized and didn’t like; his blue eyes flashing in amusement. “Is he ‘A?’”

Of its own volition, Aziraphale’s hand reached for the gold pocket watch he wasn’t wearing at the moment. Adam’s grin stretched into a full smile as though that answered his question. He started typing on his phone. “What are you doing?”

“Warlock is going to flip when he hears-”

“Do not go-Don’t act like it’s some great intrigue. Anthony and I were friends back in the day, that’s all.”

“‘Old before your time, but I wouldn’t have you any other way,’” recited Adam. “‘A.’”

Aziraphale felt himself flush and hoped it was written off as the cold getting to him. “It was a long time ago. I doubt he even remembers me.”

“We can ask,” said Adam, waggling his phone.

“Don’t you dare.” Aziraphale forced a laugh. His voice was strained when he said, “We’d all feel a little silly if the answer was no, now wouldn’t we? How about that cocoa?”

Adam gave him a disappointed glower, but nodded and started taking off his skates, putting his phone back in the side pocket of his bag. Aziraphale took a deep breath against the pain in his chest. The idea that Anthony might not remember him hurt.

“For the record,” said Adam, bent over untying laces. “I bet he does. Still remember you that is.”

* * *

“And then arabesque,[3]” said Crowley, skating backward as Warlock glided in front of him. “Get your leg higher. West Coast Wanker’s been half-assing your flexibility, hasn’t he?”

Warlock dropped his leg from the arabesque and skated next to Crowley for a second. “Hey, Crowley? Do you remember a skater named Aziraphale Eastley?”

Crowley didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His answer was skating into the boards with a thump. His skates went out from under him and he hit the ice, letting out a startled yelp. Warlock stopped and held out a hand to help him up.

“Where the bloody hell did you hear that name?” snapped Crowley.

“He’s Adam Young’s coach. Adam skates for Britain. I’ve been skating against him since Junior World.”

Crowley waved off the offered hand and got himself to his feet. “Work on your arabesque. No, scratch that. Move on to your sit spins[4]. You're still traveling.[5] . We’ll work on your flexibility in the gym.” He made a shooing motion with his hand. Warlock skated off, pulling his phone from the zippered breast pocket of his jacket.

 _He totally still remembers him_ , he texted.

* * *

Crowley got off the ice and flopped down on the nearest bench, his heart still racing.

Aziraphale.

He’d known. Of course he’d known. He’d been low-key stalking Aziraphale through the social media of his skaters for years. Watching him cheer them on during competitions like he used to do for Crowley. But where did Warlock get off saying that name out of the blue?

Crowley’s fingers felt numb and clumsy, something that had nothing to do with the cold, as he pulled out his phone and brought up Instagram. It didn’t take much scrolling to find Adam Young; Crowley didn’t follow many people. He flipped through Adam’s pictures until he found one of Aziraphale. He was laughing in the picture and it set off deep laugh lines and made his blue eyes shine. Twenty years and he was still gorgeous.

He stared at that smiling face until it finally registered. He was Warlock’s coach. He would be going to competitions with him. Even with a shitty last season, Warlock still had the points to compete internationally. Which meant at some point he and Aziraphale would have to be at the same competition together.

He was going to see Aziraphale again, in person.

* * *

**October**

“Ten.”

“But-”

“Ten.”

“But, Crowley-”

“It can be nine, Hellspawn. Just keep talking.”

The elevator doors opened and Crowley and Warlock stepped out onto the mezzanine overlooking the hotel lobby. On the opposite wall, above the front desk, was a projection declaring, “Welcome Grand Prix Skaters.” It cycled the message through different languages. Crowley gave it a glance as they walked towards the hotel bar that took up most of the mezzanine.

“Fine. I'll be back by ten,” grumbled Warlock.

“Back _in the room_ ,” stressed Crowley, pinning the teen with a look over his sunglasses.

“Back in the room, geez. What are you, my nanny?”

"Hey, you asked me to be your coach. You want someone who doesn’t care if you get enough sleep before a competition? Now go on if you’re going. See the sights, just don’t get into trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?” Warlock gave him an innocent grin and hurried off for the escalator down to the lobby. Crowley headed for the bar. A drink or two to calm his nerves was in order.

“Just give me whatever you’ve got that’s drinkable,” Crowley said to the bartender, as he climbed onto a stool. The bartender gave him a puzzled look. “Uh, scotch. Make it a double.” That got the bartender moving. Crowley took off his sunglasses, resting them on the bar, and rubbed at his face. Maybe he should have just stayed in the room? Jet lag was going to hit him hard, he could feel it.

“Anthony?” called a soft voice from just behind and to Crowley’s right. “Fancy.”

### Footnotes

1. Crowley’s views on the name “Khaleesi” are in no way representative of the author’s. [ return to text ]

2. A skating move in which one leg is bent sharply at the knee and the other is extended backwards in a straight line with the boot or blade touching the ice. [ return to text ]

3. A leg position in which the free leg is extended behind the body in a straight line.  [ return to text ]

4. A spin position with the spinning leg bent at the knee and the free leg extended forward. [ return to text ]

5. When a spinning skater moves across the ice while spinning instead of centering the spin in one spot. [ return to text ]


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to [chewb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewb/pseuds/chewb) for once again being an awesome beta.
> 
> CW: There is a small amount of negative body image in this chapter directed at Aziraphale by himself. I don't intend for this to be a major plot point, so I'm not going to make it a tag, but I will warn if it comes up again in the fic.

**March**

“I’m telling you, they were a thing!” said Adam. He was sitting at his desk in his bedroom, his laptop open in front of him. On the screen was Warlock’s face.

“Just because they trained together-” started Warlock only to be cut off by a shake of Adam’s head.

“You haven’t seen that pocket watch. I have. No one has something like that engraved on something if they’re ‘just friends’. ‘I wouldn’t have you any other way?’ And Az wears that thing to _every_ competition. Just ask him.”

“I’m not going to go ask him, ‘Hey, did you use to date my friend’s coach?’ I need him to keep liking me if I’m going to skate this season.”

“Just ask him if he remembers him. That’s not that weird. They both skated for Britain. It’s a fair question.”

“All right. All right. I’ll ask him,” grumbled Warlock. “Why is this so important?”

“Because Az never talks about back then.”

“Can you blame him?”

Adam slumped back in his desk chair, making it rock slightly. “No.”

“Crowley rarely ever talks about his skating days either, so I don’t know how much you think I’m going to get out of him. I’ve known him most of my life and I’d never heard of Aziraphale Eastley from him.” Warlock paused then leaned in closer. “Though, I think there’s a photo of him in Crowley’s office at the rink. Crowley won silver at something and he’s standing next to a blond guy who won gold. It’s not a podium shot, more like a snapshot.”

Adam grinned like Warlock had just said Christmas was coming early. He started to reply when his phone quacked. He checked the screen. “Oh, hey. Gotta go. Pepper’s on her way over.”

“Oh. Well, I’ve gotta go meet Crowley at the rink anyway. I’ll text you if I get an answer.”

“Right. Bye,” said Adam, waving at the screen. Warlock gave a small wave back as Adam ended the video chat.

* * *

**October**

Aziraphale sat at a corner table at the hotel bar with a cup of tea. Jet lag was enough of a hangover for him. Where was Adam? He’d said he would meet Aziraphale here.

“Whatever you’ve got that’s drinkable.”

Aziraphale's heartbeat quickened at the sound as he sought out where it had come from.

He knew that voice. He would have thought it impossible, given so many years had passed, but he knew it. 

Fire red hair, short on the sides and styled at the top. He’d cut it, Aziraphale thought to himself, thinking of the pictures Adam had shown him. He smiled fondly. Crowley had always been a being of constant motion and flux, always changing, always evolving. 

Aziraphale’s fingers traced the contour of the watch in his waistcoat pocket, then he was the one in motion. He took up his cane and started forward, though his knee complained at him after hours in a plane. He was drawn to Crowley as much now as he had ever been. He paused just behind the other man. Crowley was still all lithe lines. Aziraphale pulled at his waistcoat self-consciously. Crowley certainly hadn’t let himself go. Aziraphale shook himself. What was he worrying about? It wasn’t like he was trying to impress anyone. He was just going to say hello to an old friend. 

At least he hoped they were still friends.

“Anthony?” called Aziraphale, his voice sounding timid and uncertain to his ears. He chided himself and pressed on. “Fancy.”

Then Crowley was turning. Those amber-gold eyes- Oh, they hadn’t changed at all. There were a few more lines at the corners, but they were the same ones he remembered so well. Aziraphale’s heart did a leap as Crowley looked him up and down. His hand tightened on his cane, more for emotional support than physical.

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley, something akin to awe in his voice. “Hi.”

“Hello. It’s good to see you.”

Crowley nodded and stammered out, “Yeah. You too. It’s good to see you too. It’s been a while.” He shook himself and smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Would you like to-” he stopped, looking between Aziraphale’s cane and the high barstool. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-”

“No. No, quite all right. I was at a table, would you care to join me?”

Crowley’s eyes lit up, but then he glanced away. “Uh, yeah-yeah. That would be good.” He slipped off the stool and picked up his drink and sunglasses. “Lead the way.”

Aziraphale felt a little self-conscious as he walked Crowley back to his table. He tried to hide his limp, but his knee was not cooperating. It even had the audacity to pop as he sat down again. He winced out of embarrassment. “Excuse me.”

Crowley didn’t seem to have noticed as he sat down opposite him and hunched over his drink slightly, forearms on the table. Aziraphale let his gaze track quickly over Crowley again. He’d seen the pictures, but having the real thing before him now was entirely different. His face had lost the last curve of youth, now completely angular and sharp with cheekbones that could cut glass. But the smile was the same one Aziraphale remembered. He pulled his eyes away and looked down at the table, to Crowley’s hands.

“No nail varnish?” he asked to fill the silence that had fallen over them.

Crowley held up his hand as if just noticing the varnish was missing. “Nah. Don’t wear it much anymore. Besides, gotta look professional. I’m a coach now. Have you heard? ‘Course you heard. Warlock’s always going on about something Adam’s said or posted.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “Adam’s just the same. Something is always making his phone ring. I swear if he could type and skate at the same time he would.”

“Warlock can. Seen him do it. Round and round on his warmup laps, just tapping away.”

“Oh, Good Lord.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes heavenward. 

“Oh, if you could have read and skated at the same time you would have!” replied Crowley with a wide grin. 

Aziraphale huffed. “You’re exaggerating.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “I’m exaggerating, am I? How many books did you bring on this trip? Hmm? Come on. Tell me. Five at least. Am I right?”

“Only three,” replied Aziraphale coolly. “And I would have only brought two, but they were new, and-”

“You had to bring one of your favorites just in case you hated them,” said Crowley. He slumped back in his chair, grin still plastered on his face. “You haven’t changed a bit, an-Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale’s heart had leaped into his throat but then sank to his stomach as Crowley’s happy expression dimmed. He glanced down at his tea again and pulled at his waistcoat again. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh? What’s different then?”

“It’s quite obvious what’s different, and I’ll thank you not to tease.”

“Ack!” Crowley dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. “So you’ve put on a few. You’re not competing anymore. Where’s the harm?”

The harm, as Aziraphale’s doctor liked to remind him, was that he wasn’t doing his knee any favors making it carry the extra weight. 

Crowley opened his mouth to say something else, but Aziraphale cut him off with, “I think the point I was making is that I _have_ changed. I think we both have.” 

That came out snippier than Aziraphale had meant for it to, and he watched Crowley draw away from him in the subtle shift of his weight and the further dimming of his smile. Aziraphale stared down at his now cold tea. This had been a bad idea, hadn’t it? They hadn’t seen each other in decades, and the last time-Oh, why did he have to say such hurtful things all the time?

Crowley shifted in his seat again, and for a second Aziraphale thought he was going to leave. His heart was in his throat. He didn’t want that. They couldn’t leave everything in shambles again. But thankfully Crowley was merely taking his phone out of his pocket.

“Speaking of Warlock,” said Crowley. He tapped his phone screen a few times, then said, “Looks like he and Adam are having fun. They found-”

“Adam?” Aziraphale’s brows furrowed and he pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. “He said he’d meet me here. What’s he doing with Warlock?”

“Warlock and he were going to do a little sight-seeing and grab a bite,” said Crowley. His eyes were watching Aziraphale's hand now. “Is that the pocket watch I gave you?”

Aziraphale felt his face heat. “Yes,” he said quickly as he pocketed the gold watch and fished his phone out of his pocket. Adam had finally talked him into upgrading, and Aziraphale looked at the sleek bit of plastic and science with trepidation. He was still figuring it out. It was not going well.

“You’re not calling him now, are you? He’ll probably be back by ten; that’s when Warlock’s coming back.” 

“He lied to me and sneaked out behind my back,” huffed Aziraphale.

Crowley replied with a dismissive sound and, “How many times did we do that to Francis? Oh, when was it?” He tapped the table as if that would make him recall. “You nearly got arrested...”

“I did not!” exclaimed Aziraphale with shocked offense and no small bit of glee. “You’re blowing it all out of proportion, as usual. I remember it quite clearly. Paris, nineteen ninety-seven. _You_ talked me into sneaking out for crêpes.”

“All I said was that after listening to you waffle on about them all day-”

“It was hardly all day.”

“-I was going to go get some. You didn’t have to go with me.”

“You think I was going to let you go galavanting off in Paris alone? Who knows what kind of trouble you would have gotten into without me.”

Crowley waved his hand and started holding up his fingers as he spoke. “One: ‘galavanting?’ Really? Two: you wanted crêpes, don’t deny it. And three-” Crowley was cut off by his phone rattling against the table where he’d left it. Aziraphale tried for polite neutrality in his expression as Crowley checked the device.

“Warlock again?”

“Yep. Never gonna lose that kid. Instagram is better than Lojack.” Crowley looked up from his phone, then pocketed it. “You hungry? All this talk about crêpes has got me starving.”

“You haven’t eaten?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Not yet. What about you?”

“Well, no. Adam was supposed to meet me. This really isn’t like him, lying to me.”

“Probably the little hellspawn’s influence, I won’t deny it,” said Crowley with a grin that could only be described as proud. He stood and raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“Hellspawn? Really, Anthony,” chided Aziraphale as he stood to join him.

“He deserves it. First lesson I ever gave him nearly cost me a toe.” 

Aziraphale was confused for a second, but then remembered what Adam had told him. “That’s right. You taught Warlock how to skate, didn’t you?”

Crowley nodded as they walked to the bar to settle their tabs. “He was a shy little thing then. Just moved back to the U.S. from England. His mum was trying everything to help him make friends, so she brought him to a lesson. He took a shine to me; don’t know why.” Crowley waved down the bartender. “Just charge it to my room. His tea too.”

“You don’t-” Aziraphale stopped at Crowley’s wave. “I always thought Warlock reminded me of you, just a bit. Now I know why.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Aziraphale let himself give Crowley a tiny smirk. “Depends on whether he scores higher than Adam or not.” Crowley let out a bark of laughter, throwing back his head in a way so familiar it took Aziraphale’s breath away. He had to try twice to get out, “Where shall we eat?”

“How about the hotel restaurant? Less chance of a repeat of ninety-seven.”

“If either of us were going to get arrested that night, it was going to be you. You could barely walk a straight line sober, and you were considerably less so then.”

“We were celebrating! Mister gold medalist.”

Aziraphale flushed at the playfully mocking tone in Crowley’s voice as they left the bar for the hotel restaurant.

* * *

“Shit,” muttered Warlock under his breath. There was no way he was getting back to the room before ten. “Crowley’s going to kill me.”

“You? If this didn’t work, I’m worse than dead,” said Adam beside him as they rushed through the doors of the hotel.

“Oh, please. You said yourself Aziraphale’s…” Warlock’s voice trailed off as a flash of red caught his eye. He grabbed Adam’s arm, pulling him to a stop.

“What?”

Warlock pointed through the open french doors of the hotel restaurant. He could just make out Crowley and Aziraphale at a table, smiling and chatting away. He felt Adam’s muscles relax in his hand and realized with a flush he was still holding his friend’s arm. He let go quickly. 

“Think we’re safe?” asked Adam.

“Yeah. But we probably shouldn’t push our luck.” 

Just then something like an air raid siren went off in Warlock’s pocket. Both teens jumped and then bolted for the elevator. Adam got there first and slammed his hand on the call button.

“Do you think they heard that?” he asked as Warlock clutched at his heart. The elevators were in an alcove with no direct line of sight from the restaurant doors. The elevator doors opened and the pair threw themselves inside. Warlock fished his phone out of his pocket and there was a text from Crowley.

_Pic of rm plz._

“Shit. He wants proof,” hissed Warlock.

“Tell him you’re in the loo. What floor are you on?”

“Nine.” Warlock fired off a quick text. 

Another air raid siren went off in his hand. Another text from Crowley. _Since when do you use the word loo_

__

__

_Since half the people I know are British_ replied Warlock.

“I’m on seven. Sorry.”

“Huh? No, it’s ok,” said Warlock automatically. 

Adam moved from the front of the elevator to lean against the back wall next to Warlock. “So? Dinner’s a good sign, right?”

“It’s not a bad sign. Kinda neutral. What if we’re reading too much into this?”

Adam shook his head. “We’ve been over this. There’s something there, I can feel it. Az loves that pocket watch. And what about that photo you told me about?”

Another air raid siren rang out just as the doors opened for floor seven. Adam heaved himself up from his lean. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow. I’m gonna kick your ass!”

“I’d like to see that!” shot back Adam with a wide grin. Warlock felt butterflies wake up in his stomach as he smiled back. 

The doors shut again and Warlock let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. “Would you fucking stop?” he asked his body. “He’s not interested.” 

With a heavy sigh, Warlock looked at his phone. 

_Did you drown_ was the text from Crowley.

Warlock panicked and typed out, _Ate something bad_

__

__

_Shit why didn't you say be right up._

Fuck. _No I’m ok its passed_

_You sure_

_Yeah_ typed Warlock as the doors finally opened to his floor. Luckily their room wasn’t too far from the elevator. _Think it’s passed too much grease prolly_

_Do not fucking scare me like that again!_

Warlock got the room door open and snapped a pic as soon as the lights were on. He fired that off and kicked off his shoes.

 _Get some sleep_ came from Crowley.

Warlock stared at his screen. He wondered what Crowley would say if he typed, I’m an idiot for massively crushing on my best friend who is also my biggest competition. You ever been there? 

* * *

“Sorry about that,” said Crowley, putting down his phone sheepishly.

“No, I understand,” said Aziraphale politely. “That was quite a scare there for a moment.”

“Told you he deserved the nickname.” Crowley looked down at his phone then up to Aziraphale.

“You want to go check on him.” Aziraphale waved down the waiter.

Crowley didn’t want this to end. They’d talked and laughed through dinner and dessert. They’d fallen into their old banter like no time had passed at all. It was wonderful. “It would only take-”

“I should make sure Adam is sleeping myself. And it has been a long day.”

“Oh! Yeah. You had that flight. Right.” Crowley snatched the bill from the waiter and filled it out himself.

“Anthony,” said Aziraphale in a chiding tone.

“We’re gonna be here a few days, you can get the next one,” said Crowley. “I mean, if you want to, that is.”

“I will hold you to that,” said Aziraphale as he got his cane in hand. Crowley watched him brace to stand and he felt a cold ball in his stomach. Aziraphale caught him staring. “It’s been a very long day.”

“Do you need anything?” asked Crowley, a swirl of emotions bubbling up that he had to stopper before they spilled out.

“Oh, no. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Aziraphale’s voice had gone a tad higher as he waved off Crowley’s concern. Crowley bit off asking any more questions.

“Sorry,” slipped out his mouth unbidden.

Aziraphale frowned. “What do you have to be sorry about?”

Sorry I don’t know what you need. Sorry I wasn’t there for you. Sorry I didn’t stay. Sorry you fell. Sorry it wasn’t me.

“Sorry I was staring,” mumbled Crowley.

“It is what it is,” said Aziraphale calmly and motioned to the door of the restaurant. They walked in silence to the elevator. Crowley hit the call button. "Tomorrow's the big day."

"Yeah. Hopefully, Warlock's sleeping because I know I won't."

"That's strange." The elevator arrived and they both got on. "I don't remember you having trouble sleeping when you competed."

"Yeah. But back then." Crowley hit the button for nine at the same time Aziraphale reached for seven. Their hands didn't touch but it was close enough for Crowley to jerk his hand back nervously. "If I fucked up that was on me. But if Warlock has a bad skate that's still on me but he'll have to pay for it. How do you stand being a coach?"

"You do your best, and if that's not good enough you do better."

"That simple, huh?"

"Well, you know what Francis always says. L-"

"Don't. Don't say it. I've gone this long not having to hear that again, don't break my streak now."

Aziraphale heaved one of his classic ‘Why do I put up with you?’ sighs; every motion of it, from the rolling of his eyes to the shake of his head so familiar Crowley ached at the memories it evoked. "You always did think it trite, but I find it is an effective motivation.”

“It sounds like something out of an American feel-good movie from the eighties.”

“The point of a ‘feel-good movie’ is to make you feel good. I don’t see how invoking that is a bad thing. It’s inspirational.”

“Whatever you say, an-Aziraphale.” Crowley caught himself again before saying the old nickname. It felt so natural to let it roll off his tongue, but he didn’t know if it would be appreciated now.

They arrived on the seventh floor in mostly comfortable silence. Aziraphale was fidgeting with his cane. In another life, Crowley would have known what it meant, what was in Aziraphale’s head, and what he needed to do to calm it. Should he follow the old routine now? It had been working well so far.

Aziraphale saved him from overthinking by speaking. “Anthony, I-I want to apologize for what I said back then. It’s long overdue. I wasn’t in a good place then, and I took it out on you, which was thoughtless and cruel, and-”

Crowley cut him off with a wave of his hand, panic seizing his heart. He didn’t want to hear this now. Tonight had been so good. He didn’t want to end the night dredging up all that. “No. It’s all right. I understood. You needed time and space.” 

‘You didn’t need me’ was left unsaid; stuffed down and away back into its corner of Crowley’s heart.

Aziraphale shook his head. “That’s no excuse. And it was simply dreadful of me not to seek you out and apologize before now.”

The elevator doors began to close. Crowley stuck his hand between them, forcing the doors to open again. “I didn’t give you a chance, moving halfway around the world.”

One question that had always plagued Crowley when he was at his lowest was, ‘Would things have been different if he’d stayed?’ It was starting to sound like the answer was ‘yes’. 

Which meant Crowley had fucked everything up by leaving. 

“Anthony, stop interrupting and let me apologize,” 

This was too much to unpack right now. Crowley did not want to try to do any of this in an elevator, the doors trying to passive-aggressively gnaw his arm off, while he was bordering on sleep-deprived and just a touch tipsy. But there was Aziraphale, standing before him so close Crowley could see the flecks of green in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let this go. 

“Fine. But either make it fast or invite me to yours.” Crowley mentally flinched at how that sounded.

Aziraphale gave him a soft smile, a smile that Crowley found he was still willing to do anything to see. “I’m sorry, for everything I said, and for waiting so long to say so. I hope you can forgive me and we can be friends again.”

Friends. ‘Friends’ was good. ‘Friends’ was a whole helluva lot better than what he had yesterday.

Friends felt like starting over from scratch, but what else should he have expected?

“Did years ago,” said Crowley, forcing himself not to be disappointed, “and I think it’s pretty obvious I never stopped being your friend.”

The tension drained from Aziraphale. “Oh, oh really? Oh, that’s so good to hear.” The elevator doors tried to close on Crowley’s arm for the umpteenth time. Aziraphale made a little gasp and stepped through. He looked back at Crowley with a hopeful expression. “See you tomorrow then.”

“Right,” said Crowley. He put on a brave smile while retracting his arm. The doors closed between them, cutting Aziraphale off mid ‘Goodnight.’ Crowley let his forehead fall against the cool metal door. “Goodnight, angel.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [chewb](http://https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewb/pseuds/chewb) for beta'ing this for me.

**April**

God, it was early, thought Crowley as he pulled into the desolate parking lot in the gray hours of the morning. No, not God. God wasn’t even up this early. No one in their right mind would be. Though that would imply that God was…

Crowley shook his head and took a large swig of strong, overpriced coffee to wake up and stop his mind from wandering. Then he was out of his car and walking to the main doors. The cool morning air was damp and felt like it clung to him as he made his way over the asphalt. He fumbled in his pockets for the keys, unlocked the door, then darted to the security system panel to punch in the code, giving a loud yawn as the system switched off and he made his way to the light switches. After the last few weeks he’d gotten a routine down for this, but his body was not enjoying it at all. He wanted to be back in bed. 

He heard the doors open behind him. Turning, he saw Warlock entering, face flushed with sweat on his forehead and earbuds still in his ears.

“You’re late,” said Crowley before taking another shot of his coffee.

“Am not,” replied Warlock as he pulled the earbuds out. “You’re just getting here.”

“And you should be doing your stretches. Get going.”

“Why are you always so crabby in the morning?” Warlock muttered as he brushed past Crowley.

“My good mood hasn’t woken up yet.” Crowley followed Warlock through the doors to the rink. The air had a bite to it there. Sharp from the cold. “Have you got any ideas on the music you want to skate to yet?”

Warlock shucked off his backpack and dropped it on a bench. “Not really.”

“‘Not really’ as in ‘not at all’ or as in ‘I have ideas but I’m afraid you’ll think they’re dumb’?”

Warlock not answering told Crowley it was more than likely the second option. “Come on, spill. What have you always wanted to skate to?”

“Well,” Warlock paused to stretch his arms over his head, “I’ve always wanted to skate your ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ program.”

Crowley had not been expecting that, and to his mortification, he felt his face prickling with heat. “You don’t want to skate that.”

“Yeah, I do.” 

“That was an exhibition skate. You wouldn’t-”

“We can change the-”

Crowley waved him off. “If you skate that, everyone will say you’re copying me, or that we have no originality.”

Warlock flashed him a sly grin. “Or you’re just afraid I’ll skate it better.”

“Oi, hellspawn, none of that. Too early for your cheek.” Warlock kept grinning. Crowley rolled his eyes. He was going to need a lot more coffee today. “You want a crowd pleaser then?”

Warlock, who now had one leg on the boards and was stretching out over it, was silent until he straightened his back again. “I want something that’s me.”

“And you think that’s you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Gabe always made my programs, and before you say it they weren’t shit, I just didn’t like them. I hated skating them.”

“Then why did you?” asked Crowley.

“‘Cause he was my coach. What else was I supposed to do?”

A flicker of remembered pain throbbed in Crowley’s hand. “It’s a place to start,” he said, bringing the subject back to the present. “Something fast and crowd pleasing for your short program.[6] Any ideas on your long pr-- free skate?[7]” 

Warlock shook his head. Crowley hit him with a questioning eyebrow raise. “I really haven’t. I’m not used to picking out my own music.”

Crowley sighed and held out his hand. “Phone.” 

“What? You’re going to take away my phone just cause I-”

“I’m going to check your music apps to see what you listen to, hellspawn,” replied Crowley with more fondness than the words implied. “Aren’t you supposed to be stretching?”

“Fine. Just-don’t go snooping,” said Warlock, offering up his phone. 

“What? You got naughty pics in here? Believe me, I do not want to see those.”

“No!” exclaimed Warlock, cheeks aflame. “God! Can’t a guy just want a little privacy on his own phone?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but in the end took pity on him. “Fine. You can play some stuff for me later,” he said, handing back the phone. “Finish your stretches. I’ll be in the breakroom trying to make the coffee maker work.”

Ten minutes and a dubious top off of coffee later, Crowley came back to find Warlock leaning against the boards, one leg lifted straight up into the air with toes pointed, and absently typing away on his phone.

“Now I know why you didn’t want me to have your phone,” teased Crowley. Warlock nearly dropped his phone as he jerked in surprise. He dropped his leg as Crowley asked, “Someone special?”

“No,” said Warlock sullenly, cheeks pink. That could have been from the cold, but Crowley doubted it. 

Again Crowley decided to take pity on the young man before him. He remembered being that age, and he certainly wasn’t in any position to tease someone else about their love life. Crowley pushed that away; this was not the time to dredge up that very short list of failures. “Get your skates on,” he said. “Warm-up laps.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. Least you could’ve done was get me one.” Warlock nodded to the coffee cup before dropping down on the bench and pulling his skates out of his bag.

“Coach not waiter,” Crowley retorted. After a pause, he added, “But, you skate well today and there’s a small chance I could be swayed tomorrow.” 

“You’re bribing me with coffee?”

“I’m _rewarding_ you with coffee, maybe. Still haven’t decided yet.” 

Warlock rolled his eyes, but it was obvious he was trying not to smile.

* * *

**October**

“You’re not seriously going to wear that, are you?” asked Warlock after pulling his blue workout shirt over his head. Crowley was in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, pulling a suit out of a garment bag.

“Why not?” grumbled Crowley.

“You’re just not the suit type of coach.”

“How the fuck do you know? This is the first time I’ve ever coached competitive skating.”

“You’re just not. Trust me.” Warlock checked his bag and his costume for the eighth time. He’d kept count. 

“You don’t think I should make the effort to look like a professional coach?”

Warlock glanced back at Crowley. He was looking down at the suit in the open garment bag on his bed. He looked… Fuck, he looked nervous as hell. “No! Do not do that to me, Crowley. Only one of us gets to be a nervous wreck today and I call dibs.”

Crowley blinked at him, then shook himself and rubbed his hands over his face. “Shit. Yeah. Dammit. I am turning out to be a shitty coach.”

“You’ve been an awesome coach; you’d just be a little more awesome if you acted like I had a shot of getting bronze at least.”

Crowley’s whole demeanor shifted in a snap. “Fuck that shit right now. You’re getting gold. I know you can get gold.” He rubbed at his face again. “Shit, I used to live for this. Everything felt electric the day of a competition, and the charge would just keep building and building the longer I had to wait. I _lived_ for it.” He looked to Warlock. “Nevermind. Today is not about me.”

“No, please make it about you. Takes my mind off the panic.” Warlock wasn’t entirely joking. The cold ball of anxiety was still in this stomach, but hearing Crowley talk about his skating years helped for some reason. Maybe because he was so hush about that time of his life? It made each morsel of information that much more important to Warlock.

Crowley gave Warlock a wry chuckle. “You show half that amount of cheek on the ice and you’ll win gold for sure. Okay. Back to the suit quandary.”

“Quandary?” parroted Warlock, one eyebrow piqued. “Since when do you...Is this about Mr. Eastley?”

Crowley made several sputtering sounds that shouted to Warlock that he had hit the nail smack dab on the head. Warlock crossed his arms and dug a little deeper. “You trying to impress him or look hot for him? Or both?”

“Where the bloody hell did you get that idea?” squawked Crowley, his cheeks turning nearly as red as his hair. 

“You are!” crowed Warlock, beaming in victory. He sat down on his bed and locked in on Crowley. “Did you two date? What happened?”

“No and fuck no.” Crowley turned to his suitcase and yanked clothes out of it before stalking into the bathroom. Warlock was texting before the door shut.

_‘You were right! crowley about had a conniption when I asked him if they’d dated’_

A few seconds later his phone made a sound like a dull horn being blown. Crowley’s voice almost instantly came from the bathroom. “If you’ve texted Adam, I will _murder_ you!”

 _Of course I was right you asked him?_ was Adam’s reply. _did he answer? what did he say?_

_He said no but I don’t buy it tell you more later he’s tetchy_

Warlock had the self-preservation to mute his phone before Adam replied with a thumbs-up emoji. By the time Crowley came out of the bathroom wearing tight black jeans and a charcoal henley and combing his hair into order, Warlock was ready to go. Crowley glared at him as he tossed his comb into his suitcase.

“Beginning to regret this,” grumbled Crowley. Warlock had a panicked moment thinking Crowley meant coaching him, but then Crowley pulled something out of his suitcase. “This is for you,” he said, holding it out between his hands.

It was a black leather jacket with silver studs on the lapels. It looked very, very familiar.

“That’s the one from your-” Warlock’s throat tightened. Crowley nodded. It was the jacket from Crowley’s _You Give Love a Bad Name_ program. Fuck. He was not about to cry before he’d even skated.

“Just take it, all right?” grumbled Crowley, shaking the jacket at him.

Warlock stepped up to take it, but before he knew what he was doing, he hugged Crowley tightly around his middle. “Thank you,” he husked into the man’s chest. “For everything.”

Crowley put his arms around him and gave him a quick squeeze before saying, “Save it for the kiss and cry[8].” He held Warlock out at arm’s length, but his hands were warm and comforting on Warlock’s shoulders. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Let’s do this,” said Warlock, a wide smile on his face.

“Good. Shoes. I need shoes.” He grabbed a pair of black boots and shoved them on. “Got everything?”

“Yeah. Checked eight times.” Warlock hastened to add, “It’s a-”

Crowley held up a hand. “You don’t have to explain to me.” He grabbed his coat, wallet, and sunglasses and motioned for Warlock to head for the door. 

Warlock barely let go of the leather jacket to pull on his Team USA emblazoned track jacket, which sparked off a whole new round of nerves, and to grab his bag. He held the jacket to his chest as he and Crowley made their way to the elevator.

There was a comfortable silence between them as the elevator descended. It stopped far too quickly though. Warlock glanced at the digital display above the door. Floor Seven. He bit back a hopeful grin. The doors opened and Adam’s face appeared. It lit up with a pleased smile at seeing Warlock, setting off a different type of nervous fluttering in Warlock’s stomach. 

“Anthony!” said Aziraphale brightly with obvious delight. “We just keep bumping into each other.”

“Morning.” The word stumbled out of Crowley’s mouth as if several words had been fighting to get out and that one had barely made it first. 

Adam gave Warlock a conspiratorial smile, and Warlock pushed down the annoying insect conga going on in his stomach to pay attention out of the corner of his eye- No, screw that. Warlock moved to the far side of the elevator, leaning back to face Crowley so he had a good view of the show. Adam settled beside him, their shoulders brushing accidentally until Adam settled.

“Big day!” said Aziraphale, still smiling. “Oh, Warlock? How’s your stomach, if you don’t mind me asking? All better?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Warlock said, fumbling for words and to stand up straight. “It was no big deal.” He flicked his eyes to Adam, then added, “Guess Adam told you?”

“What? No. Crowley and I were having dinner when he got your texts. Didn’t he tell you?”

“He was already in bed when I got back to the room,” said Crowley, more verbal when Azirpahale’s attention wasn’t directed at him, Warlock noticed. “He needed sleep more than to hear about my day.”

Instead of being put off by Crowley’s grumpy tone, Aziraphale seemed endeared by it, if the warm smile on his face was anything to go by.

“Cool jacket,” said Adam, reaching into Warlock’s space to touch the leather.

“I-isn’t that yours, Anthony?” asked Aziraphale.

Crowley, who had shoved his fingers into the pockets of his jeans, shrugged. “Yeah. So? It was just sitting around collecting dust. Why not let him use it?”

Aziraphale practically beamed at Crowley over the obvious deflection. Warlock was wishing he had popcorn to go with the show.

The doors to the elevator opened then and the whole mood inside the car changed. Gabriel Horn stood directly in front, barring the way if anyone had wanted to get past him. Warlock tried not to bristle at the man’s sudden appearance. It didn’t matter. He had a coach, and Crowley…

Crowley was tense. His casual slump had straightened and had a tremor of restrained movement in it. And, his sunglasses had moved from on the top of his head to perched on his nose. When had that happened? 

“Aziraphale!” said Gabriel with his wide, fake-as-hell smile. That smile twitched as his purple eyes landed on Crowley. “And Anthony Crowley? As I live and breathe, is that you? When did they let you back in?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were cold when he asked it. Warlock flinched at the question. It wasn’t like a five-second Google search couldn’t tell you about Crowley’s ten-year ban from skating, but it was just rude to bring it up out of the blue like that.

“He’s my coach,” Warlock found himself saying. Gabriel’s eyes tracked to him and his fake smile didn’t waver.

“Really? That’s-well, that’s good to hear. Glad you didn’t throw in the towel, sport!” 

Warlock knew if he’d been closer Gabriel would have clapped him on the shoulder, like he hadn’t ditched Warlock at the end of last season.

“No thanks to you,” grumbled Adam at Warlock’s side, and Warlock’s heart leapt at the sound.

“Are you going to get on or just stand there using up all the oxygen?” asked Crowley, his jaw tight.

Gabriel’s smile dropped for just a second before he plastered it back on. “Actually, I...” He shifted his weight, pulling away from the elevator doors.

“Sorry! Sorry!” called a familiar woman’s voice. Warlock felt some of his tension slip away. He grinned at the sight of Anathema Device appearing at the open doors. “You shouldn’t have held the-Warlock!” 

Gabriel still had one hand on the frame to keep the doors open. Gabriel’s eyes flicked to Crowley and Aziraphale. Even Aziraphale was giving him a cool glare. “This one’s getting a little crowded. Let’s get the next one.”

So Gabriel _could_ read a room; Warlock had always wondered. 

“Oh, okay,” said Anathema. Gabriel let go of the door and they began to shut. Anathema called out just before the doors cut her off. “Warlock! Don’t have a salad today.”

There was silence for a second before Adam broke it with, “What was that?”

“Anathema is into horoscopes,” answered Warlock.

“Where was she yesterday with the helpful diet advice?” Crowley asked, his easy smile back, though it looked a little forced now.

The doors opened one more time revealing the lobby. “Ah, this is us. Get a wiggle on, you three,” said Aziraphale, making a shooing motion with his free hand.

And just like that, the nerves were back. How had he forgotten them? Warlock fidgeted with the strap of his bag and then the lapel of the jacket as they got off the elevator and made their way to the exit of the hotel. Adam bumped him with his shoulder.

“So, should I avoid salads too?” he asked with a smile that felt just for him. Warlock chuckled, his heartbeat quickening with a whole different set of nerves. 

“It would probably be the safer option,” Warlock got out.

Crowley had scheduled an Uber and the car was waiting for them in front of the hotel. Crowley checked to make sure it was the right one. “Mind two more?” Crowley asked the driver.

“One of you’ll have to sit in the front,” said the driver, glancing back at them.

“That would actually be preferable,” said Aziraphale. “More legroom,” he added.

The driver glanced again and Warlock could see him taking in Aziraphale’s cane. “D’you need any help?”

“Oh, no. Thank you though.” 

Adam and Warlock got in on the driver’s side while Crowley walked Aziraphale around and even opened the passenger side door for him.

“Oh, thank you, dear.” Aziraphale paused. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked softly.

“I said I was fine. Just drop it,” said Crowley, firmly.

“You certainly aren’t acting ‘fine,’” was Aziraphale’s curt reply.

“Get in the car, an-just get in the car.”

Aziraphale complied, but there was a concerned frown on his face as he did.

Adam nudged Warlock’s shoulder with his own, then held out his phone. On his texting app was what Warlock himself was thinking. ‘What the hell did we miss?’

### Footnotes

6. What it says on the tin, a program lasting two minutes and fifty seconds.↩

7. A program lasting four minutes; known as the long program during Crowley’s skating career.↩

8. Where the skaters wait to get their scores. Yes, this is really what it’s called.↩


End file.
